VICKERS, T.D. (Tom) – Lieutenant.

When I first found out that my father had been a POW in PG 49 at Fontanellato I immediately recalled that, during my childhood, he had briefly talked about living in the hills with an Italian family during a brief period of his wartime experience. But I knew nothing of how this had come about and so it is only when I come across some of the incredible stories archived by the Monte San Martino Trust written by others who were in the same Camp that I start to fully appreciate exactly when and how these events unfolded.

One such story is written by Lieutenant T.D. Vickers of the Coldstream Guards –

PG 49 Fontanellato, Reggio nelle Emilia, Italy

Wednesday, 8th September 1943.

“The daily evening roll call at 6.30 pm took 25 minutes because of the recent arrival from PG 29 at Viano near Reggio of 29 senior officers with names unfamiliar to the Italians. About 8.00 pm we heard shouts outside of “Armistizio; Guerra Finita; Pace; etc.” Orders came from the Senior British Officer (SBO), Colonel Hugh de Burgh, RA, for all ranks to assemble in the main hall at once – all 610 of us – 490 officers and 120 other ranks. The SBO announced the Italian Commandant was still without any official news from the Italian High Command but would let us know as soon as he had any.”

Thursday, 9th September 1943

“After breakfast we were all told to parade in the courtyard. This time the SBO’s news was not so good: the Commandant expected German troops to seize the camp. He had patrols out. We were to put on our battledress, pack our kit on our beds, draw 24-hour rations and be ready to move at five minutes’ notice. He had offered our help to defend the camp but the Commandant had politely declined it.

I left my greatcoat and service dress uniform in the wardrobe of Room 63 and packed only washing and shaving kit, a pullover, scarf, gloves and some letters and family photographs. From the basement I collected my emergency rations – a tin of service biscuits, a meat roll, 2 peaches and a small bar of ‘Motta’ chocolate. I also took the remains of my Red Cross food parcel – sugar, cocoa, nescafe and a large bar of chocolate – and some cigarettes for barter.

During the morning Colonel Hugh Mainwaring, RA (one of the 20 Old Etonians in Fontanellato) and Captain Prevedini, the camp’s Italian security officer and interpreter, returned from their two-hour recce for a suitable hide-out. It seemed strange to see the latter, an ambivalent character, on our side. Before the war he was on the staff of Thomas Cook and spoke fluent English.”

The next paragraph produces some fascinating information, and the introductory sentence brings a smile to my face. My Dad’s favourite Sunday lunchtime drink was Gin and Dubonnet (I know it was the Queen Mother’s too!)

“About 12.15 pm, when most of us were drinking vermouth in the bar, the camp bugler sounded the three G’s – the alarm call. We trooped off to our various dormitories to collect our kit and parade on the playing field. Within 10 minutes, all five companies – HQ and Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 walked out through the gap in the wire to the north side, cut for us by two Italian guards. The alarm caused panic among the latter: some scuttled into the air-raid trenches beside their huts, others sought safety in the pigsties till driven out by an officer.”

The diary entry then goes on to explain in great detail with whom Tom was linked up with as they marched out of the camp:-

I was in No. 3 company, commanded by Lt. Colonel Peter Burne, 12th Lancers. My platoon commander was Major Donald Nott, DSO MC, of the Worcesters. Captain Ronnie Orr-Ewing (2nd Bn Scots Guards) was my section commander. Each section was in pairs – ours were Ronnie and Philip Kindersley (2nd Coldstream); Jack Younger (3rd Coldstream) and Richard Brooke (2nd Scots Guards); Carol Mather (Welsh Guards) and Desmond Buchanan (Grenadiers); and finally, Tony Kinsman (Grenadiers) and myself (3rd Coldstream). Between No. 3 Co. and No. 4 on our right rode Eric Newby in his Black Watch bonnet, riding on a fat horse led by an Italian soldier. Eric had fallen and broken his ankle two days earlier and could not walk. We crossed fields and vineyards and caught up with the SBO and his HQ party, moving on then into a sunken ditch below a grass bank and in thick undergrowth. This was the site chosen by Hugh Mainwaring. We spent the afternoon drying our sweaty shirts, eating grapes and waiting for news and orders.

We received our first news at about 4.00 pm and it was not good: 40 or so Germans had taken over the camp and captured the Commandant and all but two of his officers. They had seized all the livestock and then left. Jack Younger managed to use some of his escaping money to buy bread, eggs and wine from a nearby farm. Under cover of darkness a few officers decided to slip away despite the SBO’s advice to stay together.

Later that evening we learned that 200 German soldiers had raided the camp, eaten our lunch and thrown all our belongings out of the windows, auctioning what they did not eat, nor want to take with them. They had told the locals they would return in the morning to search for us.

Before dossing down for the night, we all moved further west into thicker cover. It was a very cold and sleepless night.”

This long and detailed story continues for page after page and, as I’m glancing through it, I notice that there are names of people and villages that look to be the same as those I have been finding as I’ve been researching my father’s wartime travels through Italy. Let’s see if I can join up a few dots.

Bardi
Ballantine?
Vianino
Varsi

Friday, 10th September

“We ‘stood to’ at first light and moved on to higher ground till we reached really good cover – high maize running right down to a hidden stream and ditch. We lay hidden there till dark and shaved in the stream. Donald Knott’s advice was to make for the hills and the Ligurian coast in the Spezia area. The SBO held a ballot to decide which Companies should leave that night and which should remain hidden for a while in local billets. Nos. 3 & 4 were to go and HQ and Nos. 1 and 2 were to be billeted.

Supper consisted of bread, eggs and vino. Pay slips organised by the camp bank were given out and 100 lire in cash to each pair. After my arrival in Switzerland, I learned that Ronnie Noble had obtained a camera and film from the Commandant and made a record of all he had done to help us.

At 8 o’clock all sections closed on Platoon HQ under Donald Knott, who after a personal recce during the day led the way by compass. We were to walk south-west towards Salso-Maggiore, cross the main railway line and the Via Emilia and then split up into two’s and three’s and head for the hills. We crossed both railway lines without difficulty and about midnight we reached the road. We trampled down the five foot high, chain-link fence like a herd of buffalo. In the ploughed fields beyond Donald gave us a final compass bearing and his best wishes. In the darkness I lost sight of Tony Kinsman and after waiting quietly for two or three minutes, I went off on my own.

The countryside was flat: ploughed land to begin with. By 2.00 am I felt the ground rising with vineyards and grapes to pick at will. In the early hours there was moonlight to make the going easier. Just as it was getting light, I decided to halt.”

Saturday, 11th September

“Below me was a sizeable farmhouse with a cypress tree on either side of its front gate. I remembered from “Perfume from Provence” by Lady Fortescue, that they stood for “Peace” and “Prosperity”. A recce before anyone was astir revealed notices “Viva Vittorio Emmanueli and “Viva Pace”. Hiding in the vines, I found a laden apple tree to provide an early breakfast. Then a peasant appeared driving his ox team across the ploughed fields – “Vola! Vola!” Then women and children came out of the house with a woman in white accompanying the children to play in the garden.

I went up to the house to announce myself in Italian as the women on the balcony stared half-frightened, half hostile, before reappearing with an old man to whom I again explained myself and what I wanted. Eventually, I was taken into the kitchen for some wine and bread. One of the young women explained her brother was a POW in the UK. The old man told me a neighbour, Giovanni Ampolini, had a wireless and that he lived near the church.

I decided to retreat under cover till dark. I awoke to find two decidedly dirty Italian peasants sitting on the grass beside me. I eventually accepted their invitation to go home (“a casa”) with them. “Andiamo!” (“Let’s go”).

After some ten minutes’ walk we came to a largish, pink-coloured farmhouse opposite the one I had visited that morning. The peasants explained that the padrone’s son was an army officer, who could speak English and would be back home later. I was shown into the kitchen to meet his wife and their three small sons – Antonio, with a badly swollen leg from an adder bite, Franco and Berto. They were very poor and had no fuel for their lamp. I was taken round to the padrone’s end of the house and shown into his parlour. The padrone and his son had left Parma for the country. The soldier son was on sick leave and his English proved a complete myth. They offered no help and went on about the Germans being so “duri” and had seized their guns. But they had kept a small pistol hidden in a flask.

The five of us sat down to a supper of soup, rabbit and finally chicken. Disguised as it was by thick, dark gravy, I mistakenly chose the bird’s head! I quickly returned it, whereupon the old lady gobbled it up with evident relish. Waste not, want not!”

Sunday, 12th September

“Breakfast of ersatz coffee and bread with the older of the two peasants, followed by a second one brought to me by the wife of the younger one. Their end of the house housed two families; the young one below and the old one above with his four children. All of them were most friendly. Aida, the daughter, aged 14 was an attractive girl in a pretty flowered dress ready to go to Sunday Mass. She explained marriage at 16 was quite usual.

I returned to the padrone for lunch, where there were the other guests, a greasy-faced youth and his heavily painted girlfriend. Aida, on the other hand, was most ready to help and produced an old shaving mirror for me.

After lunch I helped to load bags of maize – half for the padrone and half for his tenants- on to the ox-cart. Several Italian deserters passed by – two soldiers from Civita Vecchia, four sailors from Spezia and finally, a cousin of the family on a white pack-horse from Genoa. All were on their way home – “a casa”. They repeated that all the Ligurian ports were full of Germans and suggested I should make for Pellegrino and thence for Bardi, where many of the locals could speak English.

I had supper of fried potatoes and rabbit with the two peasant brothers and left my own remaining food – some biscuits and my bully beef -with my original host. I left at dusk and continued to walk south-west until the road stopped near Pellegrino. On the track through the woods I had a five-minute halt beside a log pile for a few more grapes. I heard steps approaching and saw two tall figures in the dark – Philip Kindersley and Ronnie Orr-Ewing. They had begun their walk on a most encouraging note – kindness and plenty of vino all round. They had encountered an old man drawing water from a well, who had taken them to a young grass-widow, Lucia Sbottone, who had put them up since the Saturday. Besides excellent food, she had produced a map and the address of her brother, Guiseppe Dotti, in a hill village called Monastero di Gravago near Bardi. He had money and a wireless set. We agreed to join forces with my limited Italian to help us along.

The path took us along a stream bed to a little white cottage in the trees, where a young woman said she had two other escapers asleep in an outhouse. We decided not to wake them! Another hour or more further on we ran into Ballantine of the 17th/21st Lancers and Tony Kinsman. We compared notes and then continued our march into the higher hills. At about 3.00 am, when it was almost light, we found a hay loft and climbed up the ladder with the noise and smell of the cows below.”

Monday, 13th September

A friendly farm boy woke us up and showed us to his gnarled, old grandmother. She gave us an excellent breakfast with most delicious cheese. After that we had a wash and shave in the farmyard water trough. An older son then took us up to the priest’s house some ten minutes’ walk up the hill. His housekeeper met us and told us to wait for him in the church. The priest proved very helpful and clear in his directions, after Philip had shown him our map and I had explained we were making for Bardi. He showed us both on the map and on the ground that our route should be to Mariano and then through the valley to Vianino and Varsi. In the distance was the Monte D’Orsa and Monastero di Gravago on its lower slopes.

Now that we were up in the hills, we decided it was safe enough to walk by day and set off at about 10 o’clock. At one farm a nice-looking woman in a white, silk blouse produced just what we wanted – fresh milk to drink ad lib. We had a steep scramble down a gorge and up the other side to near Vianino. A friendly farmer invited us to eat our fill of his grapes. After some discussion we decided to by-pass the village. Next, we came across a group of villagers, who told us two other escapers were lying up in the vicinity. A boy on a bicycle offered to show us the way. He was lost in admiration for our “ammo” boots. Footwear of any kind was virtually unobtainable by the civilian population. The boy confirmed that we would find many friendly ‘ladies’ in Bardi! By now the river Ceno was a quarter of a mile away on our left. We had a bathe and “dejeuner a l’herbe” of the hard-boiled eggs, bread and cheese given to Philip and Ronnie by their very kind weekend hostess, Lucia Sbottone.

Philip nearly lost his signet ring during his bathe in the muddy waters of the Ceno. Fortunately, he found it. The locals gathered round to watch the strangers and one old man among them, who had worked as a tile-maker near King’s Cross, asked us in for a drink. His name was Virgilio and he spoke a little English. To our further good fortune, the local electricity company’s engineer looked in on the party complete with purple uniform, bicycle and tools. He knew Giuseppe Dotti in Monastero and expected to see him that evening. He would give Giuseppe warning of our impending arrival the following day.

We had supper in a meadow by the bridge over the river and finished our bully beef. A nearby farmer’s daughter gave us some tomatoes to go with it. We set off as dusk fell, Philip and I in front with Ronnie and the girl behind for about half an hour or so. When Ronnie re-joined us on his own, he came in for a good deal of chaffing! We next stopped a little way short of Varsi to talk to a group of girls. Suddenly a man rushed up to say there had been a telephone call from Varano to say that three lorryloads of Blackshirt Militia were expected shortly in Varsi. We had to leave the road at once and retreat into the cover of the wooded hillside.

The women at the hill farm we chose were very nervous but did agree we could sleep outside in the loft. Our form of introduction on such occasions ran like this – “Siamo officiale inglesi. Tempo fa prigionieri di guerra in Italia. Adesso, grazia a nostro gentile commandante italiano siamo liberi. Aspettiamo l’arrivo delle nostre truppe. Prego dormire qui stanotte”. We knew it by heart!”

Now, I’ve seen several references to Bardi, Vianino and Varsi which all feature in my Mum’s Diary when they returned to Italy in 1952. And the next paragraph references a Bernardo Gianelli. Could this possibly be the same Bernardo who hosted Mum and Dad in February 1952?

Tuesday, 14th September

“We did not wait to be called but were off at first light on the track towards Gravago. The road was below us and beyond it the river with hamlets dotted over the opposite hillsides. A guide took us round the steep Rocca Varsi and showed us the collar we had to make for and the church spire at Tosca. Just short of the church we came across a bullock sledge cart full of maize cobs. (There were no wheeled vehicles on those steep, rock paths). The cart blocked the path and the peasant and his wife were busy picking the cobs in the adjoining field. Both were friendly and gave us grapes. His name was Bernardo Gianelli. He had worked as a vegetable cook at the Cecil and the Savoy Hotels in London before the war. He invited us into his tiny house among a cluster of old farm houses higher up the hill for food and drink. Such a feast! His salami was out of this world and his cheese and wine were also excellent. He had fled from Paris in 1940 to escape the German Army and longed to return there. During lunch an Italian sailor and his fair, and rather fat girl-friend joined us. She was evidently not a local country girl and explained that she had lived with her parents in London. She gave us a letter to deliver to them in their little restaurant, when we got back to England. Another girl in an adjoining house had a brother, who before the war worked in a bar in Earl’s Court. They reckoned we should reach Monastero di Gravago in another two hours.

We soon had our first view of Bardi over on the far side of the river. A neat, little town clustered round its mediaeval castle, which stood guard over the river and bridge. An old woman confirmed that we were on the right path to Gravago, which turned left, i.e. southwards, away from the main river valley and up a smaller one.

We found a convenient, wayside halt between two farmhouses overlooking a village called Castagneto. We asked for a drink of water and the way to the house of Giuseppe Dotti in Monastero. A friendly, middle-aged man, named Giacomo Restegini (“Jacko” to us) volunteered to take us over there after a brief halt at his own house under the spreading chestnut trees. Hence the name of the hamlet.

Monastero di Gravago, which we reached at about 5 o’clock, proved to be a very old village of stone-built houses, built on a rocky hillside with just a steep, cobbled path as its roadway. Jacko led us to a house with new paintwork and a superior air. Signora Dotti was a thin, rather care-worn woman of about 35 years, with many gold fillings in her teeth and an American accent. Unlike most of the married women we met she was not wearing black but a coloured dress. She was not pleased to see us and led us up steps into her kitchen and through to the parlour. This was well furnished: a large Kennedy wireless set stood on a side table. About 5 o’clock, Giuseppe Dotti himself appeared. He too was not pleased to see us, unlike his sister, Lucia Sbottone, near Fidenza. His English was poor but he could understand us well enough. Before the war he had been a chef in Boston, USA, and had married there. The Dottis had three children, Dino, Rita and Gino, the latter a terrible fidgety Phil over whom his mother had no control.

We explained that we planned to stay in Monastero for a few days to see which way the wind was blowing. Could he find us billets? Rather grudgingly he said he thought he could and went off to look for some. Meanwhile his wife started to get supper ready. While we waited a thin, wasted girl called Aida, whose parents had owned two restaurants at Shepherds’ Bush, called to see the “inglese “. It was extraordinary to find a young woman with a cockney accent in this remote, hill village. Her husband was a Government forester. Giuseppe returned in due course to say that Jacko, his uncle, could fix us up. Signora Dotti was a good cook and gave us an excellent supper – mountains of pastasciutta and plentiful wine. More inquisitive locals, including the parish priest, then began arriving to take a look at us and to listen to the wireless. Jacko joined the gathering and was to prove one of our most trusted and ever helpful allies. A little monkey of a man of about 55, he had worked in America years ago.

Then we all sat round the parlour table for the evening news bulletins; first the “Voice of America” in Algiers and the BBC in London at 8.30 and 9.00 pm respectively. “Ascoltate la voce del America, una delle Nazione Unite. Ecco le ultime notizie.” Then to our even greater excitement we heard the strokes of Big Ben and the familiar tones of the BBC news reader: “This is the BBC Home and Overseas Service. Here is the 9 o’clock news and this is—reading it.”

We learned that the battle at Salerno was critical. Jacko showed us into a spare room in his old nearby stone house with a bed, straw and two rugs. Philip, as the oldest, had the bed with a mattress and a small, yellow quilt on it. Ronnie and I had the stone floor to sleep on. The room had wooden shutters and no glass in the window. Beyond it was Jacko’s restaurant/bar.”

Wednesday, 15th September

“We had the first of many hospitable breakfasts in Castagneto on the edge of the chestnut woods beside Gravago. Jacko had two houses, an old one by the path and a newer one 20 yards below. He was better off than some of the other peasants: he had made money, when he was in America, and from his restaurant/bar in peacetime. His wife had been dead for a long time. So his 22 year-old daughter, Maria, a plump, good-natured girl with a row of perfect dentures was in charge of the household. His 16 year old son, Lazaro, had recently left school. The fourth member of the household was a serving girl, Angelina, from nearby Tosca. She was very strong and Philip called her (in private!) the “horse”. Maria cooked and did the indoor housework; Angelina worked outside. The kitchen had the usual type of range with a tall chimney pipe and room for two large pots. Beyond it was the parlour, with the usual religious pictures on the walls and a large photograph of all the 1914-18 ex-servicemen from the Commune of Bardi. There was a dresser with the builder’s name and date stamped on it and an alarm clock. A small scullery adjoined one side of the parlour. Breakfast was cafe au lait with bread and cheese.

Monastero di Gravago was some 300 feet above the dry bed of the river Ceno at Noveglia on the road to Bardi. We spent that first morning stripping leaves for cow fodder during the winter. During our task, Jacko’s aunt Zia, Luigia Bergassi, came up to inspect us. Luigia was a bright-eyed little woman of about 73 and was accompanied by her dotty brother with a patch over one eye and an insatiable curiosity with the other. He examined Ronnie’s pipe and all the rest of our few belongings with minute care. For lunch we had minestra. After it we picked white beans, pulling up their support stakes as we went. In the evening we walked over to Giuseppe Dotti’s to listen to the evening news. We heard of the announcement by the German High Command that anyone finding any escaped POWs was to report them to the authorities at once. Those helping them would be liable to summary execution. This news carried considerable alarm, especially with Signora Dotti. So to bed at Jacko’s, thinking we must move on right away. But, first we needed money. Tomorrow, Thursday, would be market day in Bardi. We would ask the ever helpful Jacko to try and sell Philip’s gold signet ring and my Parker fountain pen. But I would keep my precious Benson wristwatch bought from “Opportunities Ltd” the exchange shop run by “the Baron”, an American POW, in the camp.

This story goes on for page after page and I have a lot of reading to do!

23 Aug 2025 0

ANON. plus DE CLERMONT, Patrick Howard Voltelin (Part 2)

Set out below is the text written by the anonymous author of the story that had been posted by the creator of The Pegasus Archive who I contacted to establish if he had any further information contained in the Exercise Books that he had been given access to by Ambrogio “Getto” Ponzi that might help to identify the author or any of the names that appeared in the documents.

Mark Hickman, the Author of the Italian POW Camps I had stumbled upon, returned my e-mail enquiry very promptly and indicated that he was happy for me to use the story on my website though, as I quite understood, he always deferred to the person who sent it. So, without further ado I present what I consider to be a fascinating description of life in an Italian Prisoner of War camp at the time of the Italian Armistice in September 1943.
And my Dad was there!

“It happened on the evening of September 8th. I was seated on the wooden trestle table in our messroom of P.G. 49, sipping a bottle of iced orangeade, thinking of nothing in particular except perhaps that the evenings were beginning to be of a temperature rather more bearable than they had been throughout the summer months, & also perhaps, looking at the grubby table tops, that Griffiths wasn’t worrying too much about maintaining their cleanliness, he having just taken the job from me. C.P.G. 49 was a converted orphanage situated on the outskirts of the “Paese di Fontanellato”, a small but seemingly important centre for farmers living over a fair area around, judging by the crowds that always appeared on ‘festa’ days, & the truck & wagons that were always in & out through the working days. As I gazed through the window on this particular evening, just before 8 o’clock, the scene was much the same as on any other. People – mostly women & girls, strolled slowly, arm in arm, along the road by the camp, occasionally one of them just before rations behind the hut, risking a sly wave across, in response to the group of ladykillers, the same little group to be seen sitting outside against the wire every other night since the camp had opened six months before. One or two bicycles weaved their way slowly through those walking, as they always did, there being apparently no law to keep pedestrians on the side of the road to allow free passage for wheeled traffic. It had always amused me how, a heavy lorry or a bus (one bus passed the camp four times a day) invariably went through the village without reducing speed, & sounding its horn, without a break, starting a kilometre before the village finishing a kilometre after, the pedestrians parting slowly, without excitement or harsh word, before the onrushing vehicle. Much the same thing happens with a car but somehow was never as amusing to me.

Farther down the table to my right an argument was in progress between a group of would-be Generals on the where-a-bouts of the main German line of advance in Calabria. They paused and all bent over a map – cut from the “Caurier della Sera” – and then all began talking at once – just as they always did. At the table behind was another argument, somebody said “There is no reason why the war shouldn’t end Tomorrow.” & a dismal voice drawled back “No! Another two years at least.” But you met them like that in prison camps too many of them. At the other end of the mess a disappointed winefly roared at the fellow selling wine, for selling it at all too early. Above the buzz of many conversations & argument through the door came alternately a squeak & croak resembling a cat & a porker – the cat having its toe trodden on & the porker being towed by its ears. The trumpet toying [?] a bit of a combination in preparation for Tomorrow’s lunchtime ½ hr of dance music by the camp orchestra. It was just after 8 o’clock.
Looking through the window an Italian soldier appeared at the door of the hut: with a grin which divided his face in two, his fists were clenched as he semi crouched in the doorway. Suddenly he was rudely catapulted from where he stood tense & out tumbled five or six more from behind him. Some of them looked in our direction & stuck two thumbs in the air, others ran in the direction of their sleeping quarters, shouting as they went, the rest kicked their steel helmets high in the air. Looking past the hut to the road, life was being speeded up: cyclists put on speed, those that had been strolling began to run, & in a very short time a cloud of dust lay over the road, stirred up by madly careering cyclists & others running as hard as they could go. Inside the messroom arguments eased up & one or two were larking out inquiringly. One of the lady killers also seeing that something was on risked jail & called to the sentry on the tower asking what all the excitement was about. He replied “Tutti finito.” “What’s that mean?” somebody asked, everybody thinking, but not daring to suggest that he might mean the war, for to be wrong about anything regarding the war news would bring endless rebukes & sneers from all directions.

The excitement spread. Somebody who had been speaking to the guard on the gate came in and said that the war was over. Immediately myself & some others went outside where we met two Carabinieri but they knew nothing & they passed out only to return very shortly to say that there was an armistice. I said, thinking of the Germans “Why the ______ don’t they open the gates,” but nobody replied.

I went upstairs to the room I shared with thirty others at the top of the building. I opened the door. It was quiet inside: everybody either reading sleeping or mending, talking softly. I said in a voice as normal as I could make it “Pack your gear Gents – going home.” as if I was just reminding them “Porridge for breakfast in the morning.” as I had often done before. The silence continued. One or two that had looked up when I spoke went on with what they were doing. “No Skylark” I continued. Someone who had been looking out of the window said “Something’s on anyway, the It’s have all gone barmy outside”. Then everybody seemed to wake up together. Golden came in & said it was all balls. Everybody was talking. More came in. Some went to the windows & were waved back by the Italians some of whom pointed rifles up at the windows which they always did when they were excited.
I left the room again & went downstairs to the main hall expecting something to happen there (although I wasn’t sure exactly what nature). Every night in this hall bridge is played & tonight they had began as usual after supper. But everybody had the same idea as myself & a regular stream flowed in through both doors. The bridge enthusiasts soon forgot their enthusiasm & the diehard’s were forced to, by people pressing about the table & by the time the S.B.O. mounted the table to speak, it seemed that every one of the six hundred P.O.W.’s were wedged in the hall to listen to him. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something about having seen this happen at a previous camp. This when Mussolini packed up. He had spoken of it to us before. Apparently a number of officers at this previous camp had started kissing Carabinieri thinking the war to be over. Of course he hadn’t seen anything like it before actually he must have known this. He also said that an armistice meant absolutely nothing & that hostilities were likely to recommence at any moment. Well, a nation would be disappointed. Events lately proved this to be so. He finished by telling everybody to continue as usual as if nothing had happened which of course was asking rather a lot. He had only been in the bag a few months.

As I left the hall to go upstairs again, I heard somebody say that the ‘gen’ that the Gerries were pulling out & the via Imelia was choked with vehicles going north, that a Carabinieri had brought in that morning must have been correct. Events proved the first part to be entirely wrong & that the Carabinieri didn’t know north from south. Later when the excitement had died down and & one was able to think more clearly, it seemed ridiculous to suppose that the Germans would retreat in this manner allowing the British Force to reach the threshold of Germany with only fighting a rearguard action. But I’ve no doubt it was, the excitement of the moment and this false gen, that drew my first doubts as to what the Germans would do about it.

Only a few days before the armistice, in reply to a question that an officer had asked me regarding when we would be going home, I said “it depends on what all these Gerries are doing here. If it is a military occupation, you can expect to be in Germany very soon.” (After the resignation of Mussolini German troops poured into Italy & were to be seen up & down the road past the camp all day – every day on bicycles, horses & carts, two stroke m/cycle, cars & coaches, lorries, everything, whereas previously, in two & a half years I had seen only two German soldiers, in Piacenza, while en route from Rezzanello to Fontanellato). He had laughed & said that he didn’t think so. And I went to bed that night & thought no more of Germans.

Talking to Les Woodward & John Rogers just before turning in I said “I feel as if something ought to happen. It’s too quiet.” When I saw John Rogers about a week later he reminded me of these words. He wasn’t so happy then, after sleeping for three or four nights under the [stars?] on a very damp river bank without groundsheets, & only half a blanket.”

So this was the day before everything would change! But who are Woodward and Rogers.
They certainly don’t appear on my Roll Call pages! But the story moves on…

September 9th 1943

“I awoke on this morning, just as it was breaking daylight at about six o’clock. As I lay awake thinking of turning out I became conscious of many explosions taking place in the distance. Later we learned it was a battle between the Germans & Italians for Parma Railway Station. Everything went as usual until just after rollcall had been sounded.

While on my way down to the usual spot for rollcall I was turned back & told to form up as the back of the building instead of at the side. Everybody seemed to be making for the same spot & when we had eventually sorted ourselves out into threes, the S.B.O., mounted the steps & delivered his second speech in twelve hours. He started by telling us that the Italian Commandant had said that he would defend the camp should it be attacked. “My first inclination,” he went on “was to ask if we could assist: but on second thought I decided that we were still at war with Italy & it was not up to us to interfere.” After a pause he went on to say that the Italian Commandant was prepared to liberate us should the necessity arise. “Everybody must be prepared to leave at five minutes notice.” & went on with his plan for the evacuation of the camp. “The alarm will be a series of “G’s” sounded on the trumpet. Apart from haversack rations, which will be prepared you will go exactly as I’m dressed here now in Battledress.” He finished with his plans for dividing the camp into Companies, Platoons & Sections emphasising the fact that discipline must be maintained at all times. When the alarm was sounded we were to march down & form up in our respective platoons – Companies etc in the field. We were given to understand that we would probably be back in the camp for supper. And so we all went & changed into Battledress.

I borrowed some Lira & tried without success to purchase a Dunhill pipe which I knew to be loafing in the canteen. There was a queue outside the Tobacco store of individuals drawing their hoarded tobacco & and another outside the officers food store drawing haversack rations. The Mess & kitchen staffs went about their task of preparing lunch which they completed & had nicely laid out on the tables but it was never eaten, at least by the P.O.W.’s.

By midday most of the rush & tear had died away again but not for long. Just after twelve I was in the room, looking down on to the road. I saw an Italian walking along the road away from Fontanellato. He stopped suddenly & looked down the road, shouted something to one of the Italian soldiers standing by the Interpreters office & then took a header over the hedge. The Soldier took one look down the road shouted something to the Guard Commander standing by the Guardroom & then turned & ran to his sleeping quarters. I saw him half an hour later in civilian clothes riding a bicycle away from the camp. I thought “That’s the [?]”, & without waiting for the “G’s” went over to my bed picked up my haversack, which I had packed earlier with the rations provided, a spare pair of socks & shaving gear, completely forgetting my pipe and quarter lbs of Dunhill tobacco I had had given me during the morning, & went downstairs & stood on the top of the steps leading down to the yard. Then the alarm was sounded.

Only a few people had found their way outside when there was a roar & a Ju.52 appeared from behind the trees & flew low over the building. I looked up at it doubtfully, & was ready to jump in a small gap between the steps of the building, several more standing by, had the same idea apparently, for one or two edged over to the parapet wall. But nothing happened & in ten or fifteen minutes everybody was in threes in their respective sections, platoons, etc., & the roll called ready to march through the gap in the wire previously cut by the Italians.

It was about half past twelve when the first Company marched out through the gap with News hound [?]’s camera an’ all, recording forever that great event. How the Germans didn’t catch the whole batch that afternoon is something I don’t suppose anybody will ever know. Six hundred marched in threes across a main road to a previously arranged rendezvous on a river bank three miles N.W. of the camp. And how they didn’t catch them there is another mystery, for it was two days before the order was given to disperse, although many including myself pushed off on their own accord beforehand.

By the orders we received that afternoon one would imagine that we had the support of a couple of armoured divisions & ourselves armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. Sections were sent on patrols covering all the roads round about. But for some reason or other nobody saw any Germans, at least I never heard of anybody having seen any, which was lucky for us. Most of the information, in fact all of it, I think, came from Italians, among which was the news that back at the camp the Germans were selling our gear to the Italians. I decided after this that there was no point in returning to the camp, and looked about for a companion who was prepared to take a stroll south, but at this time nobody seemed to think it was necessary. This was about four in the afternoon. It will probably never go down in History, but it can truly be said I think, that six hundred Officers & O.R’s took the commune of Fontanellato in the face of the German Army, without guns, ammunition, or loss to themselves.

The Italian civilians greeted us with great enthusiasm & many wanted to do something to help us. They produced slowly six hundred cut civilian suits of some sort & fed everybody. But there was far too many just hanging around for any comfort. They looked at us in awe as if we were animals of some rare species that had just escaped from the zoo. But I didn’t mind that. It was the fact that they just stood in a crowd on a bank which if, in itself, didn’t attract attention & give the game away, I thought it quite reasonable to suppose that there would be at least one black sheep among them who would “blow the gaff” to the Gerries.

When it began to get dark all the patrols were called in & we were told to make preparations as if to stay the night, but at nine o’clock we were to move on farther. This was an effort to evade the civilians a little. I had nothing to make a bed with – not even a Great Coat, & I didn’t see much point in sleeping on a wet river bank when there was so many dry barns about, & I decided that after the move came off, I would climb into the nearest one. As things turned out I was in one quicker than I thought. It was almost dark when a lad of about twelve years rode a bicycle into the camp in a very excited condition & said that the Germans were a kilo away coming down the road in our direction. Quite a number decided then that it was time they went, & a crowd of about twenty, myself included went off down the river bank. Later I met S.S. somewhere near Bardi who said that he had given a youth some lira to come into our midst & start a panic to provide an excuse to go.

I soon decided that the crowd was too big so I nudged L.W. & went over the bank & L.W. followed. Shortly after larking around in the dark on the other side we saw a pair of white trousers walking across the field & a closer inspection proved them to belong to J.B. We three decided that the thing to do was to get our heads down somewhere. So we walk on a bit & after five or ten minutes saw a dim light through the grape vines. J.B. volunteered to investigate so L.W. & myself waited under the vines. After what seemed an hour but was only about ten minutes the pair of white trousers came walking out of the darkness once again. He reported that the light came from a cow stall inside of which three S. Africans. G.L. & V.G. Bros, were consulting maps torn from an ordinary school atlas. None of them turned out to be much good. We decided to go in & have a look, & it was here that I first regretted not having learned Italian. The S.A. G.L. seemed to manage all right, J.B. managed with a struggle to make himself understood but V.G. Bros, L.W. & myself were starting from scratch. We messed about in this stall for a time getting nowhere but when G.L. asked the contadino if we could sleep in his barn, he refused & said something about the Germans concentrating forty divisions in Italy & that it was too dangerous. We learned afterwards that he had been a big fascist.

However leaving him six of us crossed the river to try the other side. The first place we tried we were lucky. Five of us stayed at the house of G.P. & F.C. for three weeks. The sixth caused the remainder a certain amount of worry by pushing off the next morning dressed in G.P.’s Sunday suit, sunday shoes & his wife’s bicycle & we never saw him again although after two weeks & much bother retrieved the clothes & bicycle. Both G.P. and F.C. agreed to let us stay & there & then produced bread & cheese & wine – white bread, the first we had seen in two & a half years.”

So these SIX must have consisted of: the ANON Author; L.W.; J.B.; + 3 South Africans – (G.L. & V.G. Bros.?) and it seems it was not long after leaving Fontanellato that the six found themselves at the house of G.P. ( “Getto” Ponzi?) and F.C. and 5 of them stayed there for three weeks.

“G.P. told us he was Carabinieri & that when the armistice was arranged decided he didn’t like the Carabinier any more & came home. F.C. was much older told us how when he heard the armistice he had drunk more than his ration of vino & on his way home had fallen from his bicycle & knocked his front teeth out. We sat up in this hayloft talking, eating & drinking until about eleven o’clock, of course G.L. doing most of the talking. So we spent our first night in the hay. It was the next morning that G.L. donned G.Ps Sunday suit & disappeared into Fontanellato.

For three weeks all but a day we stayed working in the fields trying to make up our minds whether to go south or wait.

The condition of the Italian people, by condition I mean principally their education and morale or general outlook, after twenty years of Fascism, is such as to constitute a menace to the prosperity & peace of Europe. To begin with the majority of Italians believe that the streets of London really are paved in 21 K gold blocks. This is due largely to Italians that emigrate to England & return after ten or fifteen years loaded down with money, and also possibly the fact that those Italians in Italy find it easy to part English tourists from their money. Although I am quite certain that very often in these cases the Italian could show far more money than the English tourist, although it would be difficult to convince the Italian of this.

When one tries to explain to an Italian that in England, to play games or to have a holiday of some sort from which only amusement and not money is derived, is something that nearly everybody has, from the poorest to the richest, he looks at you doubtfully & says “yes but Italy is a poor nation.” which is quite right, but not in the sense that he means. The average Italian has no idea how to play games in spite of large stadiums built by Mussolini for the people in which to play. But this was all a part of the gloss to hide the dust & dirt underneath. Very impressive in photographs but Mussolini never made any attempt to teach the people how to use the sports stadium, in fact he made no attempt to teach the people anything except to have faith in him, in this he succeeded.

Where as in England the people believe in working a part of the time & then having some form of a hobby at which to amuse themselves, in Italy due probably due to the insecurity of life a large surplus of labour in the country a love for gold. An Italian is prepared to & does work all day & half the night for practically nothing, eating the very minimum of food value, & walking about in rags, having possibly one decent suit which he wears to church Sunday morning, changing back to his rags immediately on his return. He never spends a cent, & his house is barely furnished with primative benches & stools. It is easy to see how an Italian makes money in England, & without thinking of what he is doing to the living standard of English workers.“

The Allied advance eventually overtook the area and the unknown prisoner of war returned home. He left the following note in one of his notebooks to ask that the family be compensated for the loss of their house and business in several bombing raids in 1944.

July
The payment of Italian civilians for maintenance of Ex P.O.W’s in German occupied territory.
This is to certify that the undermentioned family, has, at great risk to themselves, provided me with a billet, food & clothing, maintaining me in every possible way from 15th November onwards.
This family, last November accepted me into their house at a period when all the communes in the mountains were garrisoned by very aggressive Fascist troops. Due to this the majority of the Italians were too terrified to have the ex-p.o.w’s even near their house; also there was some disappointment in the progress of the Allies in Italy who were at this time just across the Volturno River.
This family accepted the risk & gave me a good suit of clothes & a bed.
On May 2nd, their house was flattened when Allied planes bombed Fidenza. Eleven days later on the 13th May their business was lost in a second Allied bombardment. In spite of this & many [?] by Fascist & German troops I have never been asked to leave the house. Having no other means of living, it is vital that the business in Fidenza, the “Cafe Ballila” be opened again as soon as. Since the bombardment they have lived on capital it would be appreciated if a part or all of any payment forthcoming be made in stock for the café.

Contained in the ANON post were a number of photos, including a photo which described the Cafe Ballila strangely in Fontanellato whereas the picture clearly states that it is in Fidenza which ties in with the note above.

The Cafe Ballila in (Fontanellato?) Fidenza. Copyright: Ambrogio Ponzi.

Also contained in this ANON post was the following letter which again, frustratingly, gives no clue as to the Author. Although it does provide his Address and also an Address for ‘Patrizio’. Could this possibly be Major Patrick Voltelin de Clermont the Irishman Mark Hickman indicates in his intro who was with the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars?

31, Union Road,
West Croydon,
Surrey,
England.

27th November 1946,

Dear Maria and Family,

Many thanks for all your cards, your letters and the photograph of Getto and Franca. I sincerely hope that Albertina is in better health. Give her my regards and tell her I hope that she will soon be well.

I am very sorry at not having written before, but so much has happened during the last few months, the most important being my demobilisation from the forces. I am now a civilian and working for my living(?), and do not particularly like it, however, one must live. In spite of a restless feeling I am managing to settle down and often when sitting in my stuffy office, I wish I were back on top of those mountains above Bardi.

Being of a naturally lazy disposition, lack of correspondence does not mean I do not think of you. My Italian is quickly leaving me: when recently I visited an Italian Restaurant, Genero’s in Soho, London, I found it very difficult to understand the Italian waiters, who spoke too quickly for me now. I did enjoy my plate of pasta suita though.

Beniamino Gigli has been singing in London recently but I was unable to get seats for any performance. There is also the San Carlo Opera Company from Naples touring England and we saw I Pagliaci and Cavaliera Rusticana, which were both excellently performed.

I have not heard from Giuseppe, Patricio or Giovanni for some considerable time now, but I suspect they are still about somewhere, either in Europe or the Pacific.

Egito and Franca didn’t seem to have altered much. In the photo Getto seems to be growing up – he will be too heavy for a ride “in gruppo” soon.

Sorry to hear that the price of everything is so high in Italy. In England too everything is getting more expensive everyday, although the price of food is maintained fairly steady, it is only because of rigid price controls and large sums of money being payed out by the government.

I am sorry I cannot send you Patrizio’s address because I do not know it, but you could address a letter to:-

Major P. De Clermont,
The Cavalry Club,
Piccadilly,
London.

I believe it would find him.

My parents send their kindest regards and sincerely hope this finds all my friends well, in Italy. Sorry that I was unable to visit you this year but will try again next year.

All good wishes, Very sincerely yours,

As concluded by Mark Hickman in his ANON post, my thanks to Ambrogio Ponzi (“Getto”, as mentioned in the above letter) for this account.

An example of the news reports from the exercise books

23 Apr 2025 1

The National Archives (UK)

Leaving the Italian prisoner of war camp Fontanellato

Promoting the work of volunteers at the National Archives

https://blog.nationalarchives.gov.uk/leaving-the-italian-prisoner-of-war-camp-fontanellato/

“The National Archives holds records of prisoners of war during the Second World War. Our volunteers have recently finished cataloguing the prisoners of war cards in WO 416. They are now cataloguing the reports and interviews, in WO 208, for those who escaped, evaded or were liberated from Germany and Italy. If the prisoner of war was transferred to Germany then a record may be in both records series.

Without our volunteers we could not catalogue these records. Previously the files were arranged by name range or interview number. Thanks to the work of our volunteers researchers can now search by name, bringing history to life.

In this blog Katrina Lidbetter, one of our volunteers, explains some of the work they’ve been able to complete through the cataloguing work around WO 208. Here Katrina looks into individuals escaping from Italy following the Italian armistice of September 1943.”

Wednesday 7th June 2023 – Keith Mitchell, Volunteers Project Officer, The National Archives

An officers’ prison: Prigione di Guerra

During the Second World War, Italian-run camps in the North Africa and then Italy were grim, with many prisoners of war dying. Only the arrival of Red Cross parcels improved their fate. However, one fortunate camp was Fontanellato, a former orphanage in Northern Italy. An officers’ prison, Prigione di Guerra (PG) 49, held some 500 officers and 100 other ranks. As such, it was better than most Italian camps.

International Red Cross report on conditions: Camp 49, Fontanellato. Catlagoue ref: WO 361/1889

Many of those held at Fontanellato can be found in WO 208. It offers you a glimpse of their experiences. There were many, brave escape attempts – from Fontanellato as from other camps – but very few succeeded in reaching neutral or friendly territory. Escaping was, if anything, harder than from German-held camps. Italy had no foreign labour force that would disguise the presence of a foreigner; the mountains and rivers of Italy presented huge practical challenges; few prisoners of war spoke Italian; and for the locals, an escaping prisoner of war was still the enemy.

Italian armistice

Yet had the escapers known it, there was little need to escape. In 1943, the situation changed. In July, Mussolini was deposed. King Emmanuel appointed Marshall Badoglio to form a new government. Unfortunately, the Germans were quick to exploit the confusion in Italy to strengthen their positions, so that by the time of the formal Italian armistice in early September, the window of opportunity for successful evasion was closing fast – as many evaders were to find out to their cost.

Another factor in the confusion was the British War Office’s instruction to prisoners of war to stay put. By contrast the Badoglio Government instructed camp commanders to let the prisoners of war out, an instruction many camp commanders obeyed, whilst some did not. In Fontanellato, the Italian Commander, Colonello Vicedomini, defied the Germans and released the prisoners of war. For this act he was sent to a German concentration camp.

Fearing they would be shot if caught on the run wearing civilian clothes, many prisoners of war kept their uniform and stayed put in camps or farms where they were working. Of over 80,000 prisoners of war in Italy, thousands were simply rounded up by the Germans and taken to Germany in cattle trucks.

Of those who did get out, many had wildly over-optimistic views as to how quickly the Allies would arrive: a false rumour that the Americans were about to land in Genoa did the rounds. Whilst many did make it to Switzerland or the Allied lines, a number did not, and were instead recaptured, shot, or died of exposure in the mountains.

The departure at Fontanellato was led by the Senior British Officer (SBO), Lieutenant Colonel de Burgh. He hid his prisoners of war in nearby woods, obtaining food and clothing from local Italians keen to help. A secret radio gave vital intelligence on the Allies. Vital aid was given by friendly Italian people, who risked their and their families lives in offering food, shelter, civilian clothing, papers, cash and directions to the escaping prisoners of war. Yet in the end, like all prisoners of war in Italy, they faced the same unpalatable options: a risky journey north to Switzerland, or the even riskier, longer route south to the Allied lines. Any delay was costly, as both the Germans and winter tightened their grip on Italy.

North or south

On the SBO’s orders, the prisoners of war split into small groups and headed off. North was the simpler option, but then you would be stranded in Switzerland. Most of those heading to the Swiss border benefited from support from locals, including an active local resistance of men and women. Prisoners of war travelled on foot, by bicycle or with train tickets given to them by local people, sometimes with forged identity cards.

Extract from prisoner of war reports: Escapes via Switzerland. Catalogue ref: WO 208/4255

Major Houghton, Indian Army (catalogue ref: WO 208/4255/31), decided it would be simpler to head north as he did not speak Italian. He got from Fontanellato to Engadine in Switzerland in 13 days.

Lieutenant Colonel de Burgh’s predecessor was SBO was Major Hoole Lowsley-Willliams of the 16/15th Lancers (catalogue ref: WO 208/4255/17 and WO 373/64/905). He crossed the River Po to Switzerland.

Lieutenant Derek Francis Hornsby (WO 208/4255/26) headed west, helped by local citizens to hide in the hills near Genoa. He hoped for an Allied landing but eventually gave up and trekked over the mountains to Switzerland.

Many others preferred to head south. In Fontanellato’s hospital were Michael Gilbert (catalogue ref: WO WO 208/3317/1684) with an infected boil, and future A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush author Eric Newby (catalogue ref: WO 416/270/230) nursing a broken ankle. Both made it out, Michael on foot and Eric on a pony or mule (Eric was not sure which it was). Eric aided by locals eventually trekked over the Apennines, but was recaptured near the front line and spent the rest of the war in a German prisoner of war camp.

Lieutenant Eric Newby, Black Watch, recommended for Mentioned in Despatches. Catalogue ref: WO 373/101/483

Tony Davies headed south, together with Michael Gilbert and Toby Graham, crossing the mountains and reaching the front line. Tony was wounded, recaptured and sent to Germany. A South African called Hal Becker who had joined them later was shot and killed. Michael and Toby successfully made it over to the Allied lines.

The gloomy, the famous and the earl

Unknown to the Italians and Germans, one of the prisoners of war in Fontanellato was Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery’s stepson, Richard Carver. He volunteered to team up with Lieutenant Colonel Francis Edward Anthony (Tony) Macdonnell of the Green Howards, nicknamed the Gloomy Dean as he resembled the rather gloomy Dean of St Pauls, William Ralph Inge. Tony agreed to say he was only a captain, to attract less attention.

Together they set off on the long trek south. Seeking shelter in a monastery, they encountered the Sixth Earl of Ranfurly, General Neame’s Aide de Camp. Ranfurly had left the Italian ‘Colditz’, Vincigliata Castle, near Florence. Having caught a cold on his trek, Ranfurly was ensconced in a large room with a fire, eating his dinner. To their chagrin, the monastery offered Richard and Tony a small unheated cell for the night. Muttering about the monastery’s fine appreciation of the British aristocracy, nonetheless grateful for any shelter.

Extract from prisoners of war who were liberated or escaped from Italian camps, Lieutenant Colonel F A (Tony) Macdonald, Green Howards. Catalogue ref: WO 208/5399/4

Later the two were hidden over winter by a poor Italian family. Both made it to Allied lines: Richard finally made it across in early December 1943. The success of Richard’s old schoolfriend Carol Mather (catalogue ref: WO 208/3316/1543) must have been a bit galling. Carol and another prisoner did not wait for orders from the SBO but walked out of Fontanellato, reaching Montgomery’s HQ on 15 October 1943. They had headed south as fast as possible, getting over the mountains before the onset of winter and before the Germans had fully reinforced their lines. Upon Richard Carver’s return in December, Montgomery’s reaction was ‘Where the hell have you been?’

20 Apr 2025 0

Do we ever learn from History

Flying up to Italy for the 80^th Anniversary of the Italian Armistice that took place on (or about!) 8^th September 1943 I was reminded of all the conflicts that had taken place in or around all the cities that kept popping up on my screen when I was checking on how our flight was progressing.

Most notably I had only just been learning that my own father had either passed through Alexandria or certainly close by it. And, just prior to engaging with Rommell and his Panzer Divisions in the Libyan/Egyptian Desert in 1942, leading to his ultimate capture and imprisonment at Fontanellato (PG49) near Parma in 1943.

But then there was also Yalta which immediately conjured up visions of Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt convening at that conference in 1945 at the end of World War II.

In February 1945, US President Franklin Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin met at the Yalta resort in then-Soviet Crimea to finalize their strategy for the remainder of World War Two and forge a post-war settlement.

But my mind also took me even further back to the Crimean War. And really, what was that all about? Certainly, something to do with the decline of the Ottoman Empire. But what consequences did that have on the Russian psyche and where we are now?

Woodville, Richard Caton; The Relief of the Light Brigade, 25th October 1854; National Army Museum; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/the-relief-of-the-light-brigade-25th-october-1854-183084

Lord Tennyson wrote in “The Charge of the Light Brigade”

“’Forward the Light Brigade!’

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

Someone had blundered.

Theirs not to make reply.

Theirs not to reason why.

Theirs but to do and die.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.”

And what about our recollections of Beirut. And what were the major factors that kept recurring with all these conflicts? Was it Religion, Oil, Power? What an extraordinary world we live in. And now, especially with Kiev in mind, we seem to just fly on by.

6 Sep 2023 0

FINDING FONTANELLATO

Finding Fontanellato was a bit like “Finding Nemo”. Yes, I had always known that my father had been in a POW Camp in Italy during WWII. Mainly because I knew that he had been told that his father had died on 10^th March 1943 when he was a prisoner of war. But for the best part of half a century I had no idea Where in Italy? What Town? What did the Camp Look Like? Was it Still There? What had it been like Being Imprisoned There? Where did they go after being Liberated at the time of the Armistice? Question after question kept popping into my head.

After establishing in early December 2018 that my father had indeed been in PG49 in Fontanellato I couldn’t think of anything other than finding this place.

It was about this same time that my partner, Rex, and I had started to plan a trip to Europe to catch up with family and friends. Plans started to formulate in early 2019 and soon we had our itinerary set for stops in London, Malaga, Granada, Rome, Sarnano (to visit friends), Lucca (a pilgrimage for Rex to pay homage to Puccini), Verona (for an Opera at The Arena) and Venice before embarking on a memorable Cruise around the Baltic on the Queen Victoria.

London saw us take in the incredibly acerbic and riotously irreverent musical comedy “The Book of Mormon” at The Prince of Wales Theatre and the gloriously melodramatic Opera of “Tosca” at Covent Garden. That set us up for the most incredible journey into the Moorish Architecture and Arabic World of The Alhambra in Granada which is an experience I would recommend to anyone. But it was on returning from The Alhambra in Granada with my brother Graham and his wife, who had both brilliantly organised our glimpse into The Arabian Nights, to their holiday home in Estepona that the most incredible thing happened. As you can imagine both he and I had recently stumbled on this treasure trove of information on PG49 at Fontanellato, as provided by the Monte San Martino Trust. And consequently, all these questions which had been bouncing around in my head suddenly had a sounding board, which probably only succeeded in creating yet more questions.

Then, out of the blue, Graham said…. “I think you need to read this.”

Eric Newby’s lifetime exploits are well documented (see Books) and none more so in relation to PG49 at Fontanellato than “Love and War in the Apennines”.

And what an extraordinary revelation it was. Not only was this man, Eric Newby, writing about his wartime experiences and capture off the coast of Sicily in August 1942. But he very soon afterwards pops up in PG49 at Fontanellato when he starts describing some of his experiences and life within the Camp. And suddenly I’m there……

“The prison camp was on the outskirts of a large village in the Pianura Padana, the great plain through which the river Po flows on its way from the Cottian Alps to the sea. The nearest city was Parma on the Via Emilia, the Roman road which runs through the plain in an almost straight line from Milan to the Adriatic.”

So now I know Where it Is! But there’s more!

“The building in which we were housed had originally been built as an orfanotrofio, an orphanage…The foundations had been laid back in 1928, but the work had proceeded so slowly that the war began before it could be completed, and it remained empty until the spring of 1943 when it became a prisoner of war camp for officers and a few other ranks who acted as orderlies.”

And I now also know that it was a building! And it wasn’t just my Dad who was there! Yet more disconcertingly….

“It was a large, three storeyed building with a sham classical façade, so unstable that if anyone jumped up and down on one of the upper floors, or even got out of bed heavily, it appeared to wobble like a jelly.”

So, was it still there? Now I really HAD to find this place. It was at this point that I started trying to figure out if our carefully planned route through Italy could squeeze in an interloper. It wasn’t long before I worked out that our route from Lucca to Verona HAD to go in a certain direction. A quick check on Google Maps meant that our journey would no longer go via any of Florence, Bologna or Modena but instead go via Spezia, Parma, Cremona and Brescia. And only 40 minutes added to the planned 3 hour drive to our next destination!

Lunch in Fontanellato was on!

15 Jul 2023 0

Hobbling and on the run!

It’s been about 4 years since I first read Eric Newby’s book entitled “Love and War in the Apennines” so I’ve decided to see if I can refresh my memory of the very feelings I had when I first read it.

And before very long you’re immersed in another world. And most importantly I’m aware that my own Dad was alive and experiencing the exact same circumstances that Eric Newby is describing. And you’re there. You’re walking the same corridors. Marching the same roads. Playing in the same exercise yard. And eating and drinking, yes drinking, wine and vermouth in the same rooms. My Dad’s favourite drink on a Sunday lunch after a few hours in the garden when we were living in Jersey, was a Gin and Dubonnet.

Actually, I think he used to say that it was the Queen Mother’s favourite tipple, but I now wonder if this taste for vermouth first came from his imprisonment in PG 49 at Fontanellato?

Whilst immersed in this book I start wondering if other relatives of these inmates at PG 49 have felt the same feelings that I am now experiencing once again. For suddenly you’re in Fontanellato. And not only that but you’re the one unfortunate who has broken his ankle, just two days before being released from captivity. As Eric Newby explains…

“….on the seventh of September, 1943, the day before Italy went out of the war, I was taken to the prison hospital with a broken ankle, the result of an absurd accident in which I had fallen down an entire flight of the marble staircase which extended from the top of the building to the basement while wearing a pair of nailed boots which my parents had managed to send me by way of the Red Cross.”

Hold on. Rewind! Did he just say “marble staircase”! What sort of POW Camp is this? And it’s only once you have seen it in real life, not just pictures from the Internet, that you get to appreciate the elegance of this grand old building. So how come my Dad didn’t mention any of this?

But this story of “Love and War in the Apennines” doesn’t end there obviously and, without going into a spoiler alert, it’s fascinating to learn that soon after sampling the intoxicating emotion and joy of being set free from captivity, Eric then faces what must have been an intolerable dilemma. Just a day after being set free from PG 49 at Fontanellato, he receives the worst possible news.

“Around eleven o’clock an Italian doctor arrived in a Fiat 500.He was an enormous, shambling man with grizzled hair, like a bear and one of the ugliest men I had seen for a long time.

He examined my ankle, which was rather painful after the strains to which it had been subjected, raised his shoulders, made a noise which sounded like urgh and went off to have a conference with the capitano.

‘The doctor says you must go to the hospital,’ the capitano said, when they emerged from their conclave.

‘But that means I shall be captured again,’ I said.

‘You’ll be taken away if you don’t…….. The doctor can get you into a hospital in Fontanellato. No one will think of looking for you there.’”

So, you’ve just experienced the euphoria of freedom to now finding yourself thrown back into the Lions Den of Fontanellato! Which by now is full of angry Germans who have just been betrayed and let down by the Italians. And very soon you’re lying in a bed in the Ospedale Peracchi on the outskirts of Fontanellato, only a few hundred yards from the orfanotrofio (Orphanage) which we now know to be the site of PG 49.

And suddenly I’m jumping on to my computer to see if I can establish if this Ospedale, or Hospital, exists. And sure enough a quick Google search comes up trumps. Sitting at Via XXIV Maggio 16 it’s just an 8 minute walk from Via IV Novembre 21 where the building housing PG 49 can also be found.

Now this I have to see one day!

30 Jun 2023 0

Category: FONTANELLATO